


Unconscious

by Nestra



Series: Unconscious [1]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-04-07
Updated: 1999-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/pseuds/Nestra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair is unable to sleep, thinking about Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unconscious

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Bast, who beta'd.

Jim is my best friend. OK, so he's the embodiment of my field of study, but in the years we've known each other, we've become very close friends. We've saved each others' lives countless times, and we've seen each other through some incredibly difficult stretches. Let me put it this way. If Jim needed a kidney, I'd shove his brother out of the way and hop up on the operating table.

Right now, I'm about two heartbeats away from smothering him with a pillow. We spent every night this week on a stakeout. The case is finally closed and tomorrow is Saturday. Both of us came home and fell straight into our respective beds. Jim was so tired he had difficulty navigating the stairs. If I hadn't been comatose, I would have laughed my ass off at the sight of big, bad Jim Ellison marching slowly up the stairs with a look of frantic concentration on his face.

But am I asleep now? No.

This is a lesser-known fact about big, bad Jim Ellison. When's really, _really_ tired, he snores. Like a fucking pneumatic drill. You'd think with those Sentinel ears of his, he'd wake himself up, but he's apparently tired enough to sleep through the racket he's making.

Me? Not so lucky.

I'm lying in bed, marveling over the fact that I can hear him down here, despite the obstacles of a floor, my bedroom doors, and the pillow I've placed over my head.

There are times when being a nice guy really sucks. Sure, I could go upstairs and (carefully) wake Jim up. "Jim," I could say, "you're snoring like a fucking freight train. You wanna roll over, please?"

But I won't do that, because as much as I need sleep, Jim needs it more. I'm accustomed to an erratic sleeping schedule; Jim prefers to have his life run like clockwork. If I wake him up now, it'll ruin his sleep completely. He'll wake up unrested and grumpy as hell. And we can't have that. I'd rather lose another night's sleep than be made into Sandburg-tartare over breakfast.

Of course, there is another solution, but I don't like to think about that. It disturbs me, the same way I was disturbed when I realized that my platonic love for Jim wasn't platonic at all. It's a hell of a shock to look up at your roommate one day and think "I want him," because you're suddenly struck dumb with just how goddamn gorgeous he is. But I do want him.

And life-altering shock number two--I don't just want him. I love him. I need him. His presence is oxygen and sustenance and joy and everything I never knew I wanted. Sometimes the mere thought of him is so sweet, it threatens to bring tears to my eyes. (We can just file that one under "Unresolved Threats to My Masculinity"--right next to the spontaneous development of homosexual lust.)

So where does all this get me? Damned if I know. I like to think that I understand Jim, but I'm well aware that there are layers to him I haven't been allowed to see, let alone touch. I think it's possible that Jim could go for a man. Whether he could go for me...

Damn. How am I supposed to think this through with all the noise he's making up there? Fine, I give up, Jim. I bow to the unearthly power of your lungs and nasal passages. Time for Plan B.

"Jim," I whisper. "Turn over."

And that's all it takes. The noise stops.

And that scares the shit out of me.

Jim sleeps through his own snoring, but he's so tuned in to me that those three soft words cut through his slumber, and he obeys immediately. Unconsciously. Boy, talk about your burdens.

I don't want that kind of power. It's bad enough that I'm the Guide and the shaman here. I'm the one Jim looks to to solve any mental, emotional, or spiritual difficulties. It's a hell of a responsibility, and it's reinforced every time Jim looks at me with that solemn trust in his eyes.

But hey, I've had time to deal with that. Once a Chopec shaman has died on your couch, you learn to accept those responsibilities. This snoring thing really gets me, though. It's only happened a couple times, and the first time was an accident. I muttered the words half-heartedly, as a wish rather than a command. And they worked, just like they worked tonight.

Take that little episode, tie it in with my revelation about my feelings, and you have the makings of a full-blown panic attack. Jim, the most in-control person I've ever met, responds to my voice whether he's awake or asleep. Shit, he doesn't just respond. He obeys. Is it because of the whole Sentinel-Guide connection, or is it because of a Jim-and-Blair connection?

I don't know. And if it's the former, I don't want to know. Just leave my hopes intact, okay? That's why I keep quiet.

But speaking of quiet, it's finally silent in here. I'm going to stop thinking about this and go to sleep. Maybe one day, God willing, I'll be sleeping next to Jim. And instead of telling him to stop snoring, I'll silence him with a kiss. Until then, I'll just think of this: the way Jim responds to me may be scary, but it's wondrous too. I never though I'd see a miracle, but my miracle is upstairs sleeping the sleep of the dead.

Hang on a minute, buddy. I'm right behind you.


End file.
